Page 106 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
The kind that shoot down my spine when I try to turn my head, making me wonder if thirty-three is too young to need a chiropractor or too old to be crashing on furniture designed by someone who clearly hates the human body.
The living room smells like wet drywall, drifting in from the kitchen restoration in progress. Charlotte’s dehumidifier wheezes in the room behind me, fighting a losing battle against Louisiana in June. Through the French doors leading into her narrow backyard, the morning light is still pale and new.
It’s early.
Too early to think about anything other than coffee, I warn my brain as it tries to start fretting about my phone. And the messages on my phone. And how I’m avoiding the messages on my phone because I’m a coward who, by the time I touched down in New Orleans after a gnarly flight through a thunderstorm yesterday, couldn’t handle any more conflict.
I can’t handle it this morning yet, either.
Not until I’ve achieved maximum caffeination.
I peel myself vertical, my right hip complaining. Next time I crash at Charlotte’s, I’m definitely taking her up on the offer to sleep in her big king-size bed with her.
I pad into her kitchen—or what’s left of it—knowing she wouldn’t still be living here if she hadn’t figured out a way to make coffee. I scan the space and sure enough, next to a pile of drawers she’s determined to save and a stack of boxes labeled “KITCHEN SHIT” in aggressive Sharpie, sits a coffee maker on a small folding table.
And of course, Charlotte splurges on the good stuff, even when her kitchen looks like a demilitarized zone. In just a few minutes, the air smells like nutty French roast.
While I wait for my liquid courage to brew, I wander over to the kitchen table, nose wrinkling as I spot the wedding invitation Charlotte left there last night. Heavyweight cardstock in a tasteful champagne requests the pleasure of her company at Theodore James Delacorte’s marriage to Madison Elise Carlisle.
Madison. Charlotte’s former assistant.
Twenty-five years old with the kind of aggressive perkiness that makes evenmefeel tired. Up until about a year ago, Maddie still chipped in at catering events when we were short-staffed. She always seemed to have the energy of three people.
Now, she’s putting that energy to use boinking Charlotte’s ex…
“Stop looking at it.” Charlotte’s voice comes from behind me, making me jump. “Don’t give it attention. That’s what it wants.”
I turn to find her in yesterday’s green silk pajamas, eyes still puffy but chin lifted like she’s ready to fight the forces of evil. Or at least Theodore James Delacorte and his appalling lack of good taste.
“I could set it on fire,” I offer. “There have to be some matches around here somewhere.”
“No, I need more aggressive vengeance.” She pours coffee into a mug that says “Horny for Normalcy” in gold letters and extends it my way. “I could hire a mariachi band to play outside the church during the ceremony.”
“Creative.” I accept the mug with gratitude, inhaling the delicious aroma as I suggest, “But a jackhammer might be more effective. And annoying. Or you could release bees in the reception tent. Isn’t Teddy allergic?”
Charlotte’s eyes narrow. “Yes, but so is his mother, and I actually like her. I could bribe the caterer to put coconut in everything. He hates coconut.”
“Then sign him up for every multilevel marketing scheme in existence.”
“And all the gay porn magazines,” she agrees. “They still deliver magazines, right?”
“If not, I’ll deliver them to his mailbox for you, free of charge.”
She smiles. “You’re the best.”
“Thank you. So are you. I’m sorry this happened. You deserve way better from men in general, and Theodore in particular.”
She nods, her smile fading as her fingertips whiten on her mug. “Thanks, though, to be honest, it’s the Maddie part that hurts the most. I gave her a job straight out of college, taught her everything I know, even helped her launch her own party planning business when she was ready to go out on her own. Then she turns around and does this? I mean, he’s literally theonlyman in New Orleans I would care about a friend of mine dating. She could have had any of my other exes, no harm, no foul, and with my blessing.”
“Yeah, she knew how you felt about him,” I agree.
“Everyone did.” Charlotte sags into one of the chairs with a sigh. “I was pathetic.”
“No, you weren’t. You were keeping your options open. There’s a difference. And it’s not like Teddy made it easy for you to move on. He’s such a dirty, rotten breadcrumber.”
“He is,” she says, her tone heating again. “It’s like he had some kind of sixth sense about it, too. Every time I was ready to move on, there he’d come with a present for my birthday or an invitation to meet for happy hour and catch up. Meanwhile, he was busy ‘catching up’ with Madison’s vagina.” She growls beneath her breath. “We had coffee two months ago, Makena, and he didn’t say a word about her! Not a single fucking word. And I’m assuming they didn’t meet, get engaged, and get invitations engraved all in the past six weeks.”
I shake my head. “Doubtful.”
